The Rules
by ImaPseudonym
Summary: Keller meets Neal, who may or may not be an exception to the rules.  Keller/Neal intrigues
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Rules 1/3

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG13, for indecent thoughts.

Summary: Keller meets Neal, who may or may not be an exception to the rules.

Warnings: Keller's a little pervy, but when it comes to Neal Caffrey, we all are. And Neal's mostly on board, anyway.

Notes/Spoilers: No real spoilers. This is almost entirely conjecture. It's pre-series, with some series-established facts 'about' pre-series. But nothing that's going to ruin the show. Author's notes will follow the fic. (I lie. There is brief mention, in passing, of the outcome of Neal and Vincent Adler's relationship. Nothing detail-y, though.)

Disclaimer: Belongs to USA, and Ross McCall's somehow wonderfully intriguing Keller.

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-o-O-o-O-o-

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Backgammon was not Matthew's game, but that wasn't the point. There was money to be had and all he had to do was stay in the game long enough to leave Monaco a richer man.

Well, that was the plan.

But then 'Nelson Carter' showed up, and with an effervescent smile, and a vulnerable (though subtly false) innocence he stole away all of Keller's hard-earned marks.

He didn't like it, but he couldn't blame the rubes; Nelson almost had him, too. As it turned out (though he'd prided himself on thinking with the elevated brain) the aesthetic appeal of a dark-haired, blue-eyed, and beautiful youth made for one Hell of a distraction.

Matthew lived by subterfuge but he was smart enough not to lie to himself. This stranger, his competition, was one of the more attractive (not to mention tempting) obstacles he'd come up against.

"Just to clarify," Matthew said, grabbing the man's wrist in warning, as he casually brushed by with a soft 'pardon me'. His hold kept the newcomer's arm pinned against his chest. "I'm hoping that you've stuck your hand in my pocket because you're tactlessly forward, and not because you're trying to steal from me."

Well, hoping wasn't the same thing as delusion, so that had been honest enough.

'Nelson' had the grace to appear abashed, and despite every better judgment he'd ever had, Matthew was intrigued. Not every thief would make even that much concession to being made.

"You caught me, Mr...?"

A pause the length of a heartbeat; three.

Matthew let him go, felt the hand slip out of his jacket (devoid of its intended prize), as he hadn't felt it slip in.

"Matthew Keller. And you are?" he wondered if he'd get the truth from him.

"Nelson Carter. But I think you knew that already."

"I'd heard 'that' name, yeah. I was half-hoping you'd introduce yourself with your actual name, but-" he shrugged, not so much irritated, as bored.

"I think..." the man said, carefully. "that we're both familiar with the necessity of aliases." Matthew smirked, and Nelson continued with a small frown of dawning comprehension.

"Even if you're secure enough to give your real name to a stranger you caught pick-pocketing you."

The smirk softened to something like a real smile. At least Blue Eyes wasn't overly stupid.

"There's a difference between pick-pocketing and fishing for an identity. You weren't going for my money. There are bigger fish to fry, after all. I just thought I'd save you the trouble of using theft to find out who I am. My ID is a fake, so my wallet wouldn't have done you a lot of good."

Nelson looked uncomfortable, now. Doubtless, Matthew was erring against criminal social protocol by being so forthcoming with illicit truths.

He didn't care. He lived by his own rules.

"There's no need to worry. I'm the last person who could condemn you." he said reassuringly. He wasn't surprised that Nelson didn't seem reassured.

Matthew was getting bored again, his impression of the man shifting and changing by degrees as the pros and (heh) cons tilted the scales of judgment. It was becoming apparent to him that the only difference between this man and a sea of other petty thieves was unnaturally good looks. And maybe an extra wit or two, besides.

And yet something still compelled him to think otherwise.

Matthew had been staking out this crowd for two weeks before this pretty face showed up. There were dozens of rich, bored people who would be suitable targets for a little honest thieving, or bamboozling: People who wouldn't mind a side wager or two, to keep the tournament extra exciting. Matthew had spent two solid, uninterrupted weeks getting close to them; gaining interest, if not trust. He'd weeded the paranoid or less wealthy from the pack and was now focused on only those who held promise for the heft of his billfold.

Like Mr. Faulkner, the industrial tyrant/philanthropist of Detroit.

He knew that Lawrence Faulkner wasn't an easy mark. He'd seen the man brush off compliments from dazzling men and women on twenty different occasions, but five minutes with the blue-eyed competition (who'd zeroed in on Faulkner out of some unknown instinct) and he'd subtly slipped his digits over on a cocktail napkin, like they were in some cheap bar in the Bronx, and not a room filled (or at least partially occupied) with gambling-obsessed millionaires.

Well, it confirmed Matthew's suspicions about Faulkner's preferences, but it left the question open about what made this 'Carter' character so appealing.

He'd seen a thousand men and women try on a thousand masks to get close to their targets: The safe and shy 'Aw shucks' bumpkin, name-dropping social-climbers, temptresses with too much bared skin, or a thick wrap of intrigue: Even the tough guy, or strong-silent types. Desperate and pitiful, vaguely dark and sensual, or the good-willed everyones' best buddy.

This guy was none of those, and all. His charm was less like armor, and more like a skeleton; it couldn't be made or removed, but supported from within.

This man didn't possess charm. He 'was' charm.

That, alone, was enough to warrant real consideration. And who's to say Matthew couldn't teach him a thing or two, and get something in return?

He was selfish by nature; greedy, and covetous. But he wasn't cheap, and he did know that there were things of value that couldn't be converted to dollars and cents.

Matthew made a habit of luxuriating in all forms of wealth, and if it cost half of his intended take at the backgammon finals, well... He felt certain he could live with that.

"Maybe we could make an alliance." Nelson took a step back, mouth opened with ready platitudes, rejection written in the fine lines of his slender body.

Matthew stepped forward, his prey frozen between fight and flight, but he only slipped his card into the man's hand.

"Better to get half easy, than to fight me for it all." his tone held a challenge.

See what you can get. See what I'll give.

TBC

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-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-

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A/N: Say that you love me?


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Rules 2/3

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG13, for indecent thoughts, and preludes to indecent actions.

Summary: Keller meets Neal, who may or may not be an exception to the rules.

Warnings: It may be all over the place, but in my defense this entire story was written on my iPod.

Notes/Spoilers: This is the important chapter. Chapter 1 was winding it up. Chapter three is letting it settle… But 'this' is the spin, ya'll.

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-o-O-o-O-o-

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Neal Caffrey.

It suited. Matthew's contacts had come through nicely. As it turned out, Neal had a bit of a reputation. Almost fleecing Vincent Adler was no small feat. Living afterwards? 'That' was truly impressive.

He figured he had another full day before Caffrey accepted his offer of alliance; cautiously approaching Matthew's stake out at the casino's bar, all languid smiles, and seductive tones. He'd find out what Matthew was about; the better to turn the tables on him later. And Matthew had already decided to play it straight, answering everything honestly to keep 'Nelson' chasing his tail.

He found himself looking forward to the moment he dropped the young man's name.

But then Neal was at his door, a full twenty-four hours earlier than expected. Matthew frowned as Caffrey brushed past, into his suite. Casually, like they'd been friends for years.

His opinion shifted in his mind; recalculating.

Tick. Unpredictable. Tick. Confident. Tick. A possible threat. Tick. Still too damned pretty. Tick...

This new impression left him feeling sour. He hadn't known his opponent so well, after all. And, at best, they were even now. That wouldn't do.

"Mr. Carter. I-" wasn't expecting you. Wasn't ready for you. "'m glad you stopped by."

"Well, I'd be an idiot to not take you up on your offer. I've got nothing against easy money, after all." his tone was slightly insolent, leaving the impression that he'd let Matthew do the work and skive off with as much of the take as he could manage. But Matthew had learned a lesson in underestimation, and he wasn't keen on learning it again.

He stepped up close to his competition-turned-ally-turned-guest. Looking down, he saw Neal realize he'd lost the physical battle by taking the literal low-ground of the settee, while Matthew was on his feet.

Gotcha.

Physical menace wasn't Matthew's first choice in any standoff. He wasn't a large or naturally imposing man, but he'd discovered (the hard way, of course) that his willingness to get his hands dirty was an asset. His posture said 'I could make this physical, and you had best believe I'm able to beat you to within an inch of your existence.'

Not the most subtle weapon in his armory, but he was still smarting from having been surprised.

In a way, his looming was a sign that he'd lost this round. But Caffrey didn't know this. Not yet.

Like a light switch, Neal's own posture reflected submission, deference, and appeasement.

His smile was pristine, but he exposed his palms in supplication. "I just want to learn from you."

"Sure." Matthew agreed, amiably, but he didn't back down. Not yet. Because Neal's discomfiture made him feel low-handed, and he was angry to be feeling that way.

Their knees were touching now; Neal had sunk back into the plush upholstery; his smile was chipping. Matthew let the tension draw out a few more seconds. Then he pulled back. The air between them was laced with emotions, most of them bad.

An ominous start to their relationship.

"Drink?" Matthew offered, seamlessly falling into the role of the gracious host. It was a move made to unnerve, and he didn't need to look to know that it had worked.

"I-Uh, I don't-" Neal started, shifting like he was going to stand up.

"You've had three glasses of champagne, a snifter of brandy, and at least six glasses of wine since you got here... In public. I know you've had more in your room, so you can't tell me you don't drink. You're nervous, and your lips are dry, so you must be thirsty." he poured a generous amount of his favorite white wine.

"Moreover, you need to relax." turning back to his thoroughly unsettled companion, Matthew took a long pull from the glass, before handing it over.

He knew Neal wouldn't call him on the obvious gesture to prove it hadn't been drugged. There was caution, and then there was rudeness.

He poured himself a glass, then, and took the armchair opposite the settee. Part of him had wanted to share the couch; press his thigh against Caffrey's and feel his heat; every twitch or shake of nerves. But the chair afforded a more complete view, and he needed Caffrey at least secure enough to conduct their scheming.

Time enough for other pursuits, later.

Matthew was having a difficult time deciding what was more appealing; stealing thousands of dollars... Or unraveling Neal Caffrey, in all possible ways.

"So... What's your angle?" Neal asked, screwing up his confidence which shattered at his own careless phrasing. The young man blushed prettily, Matthew was supremely unsurprised to note.

"I mean for the job- the con?"

Matthew smirked.

o-O-o-O-o-O-o

As it turned out, Caffrey 'was' more than a pretty face attached to an even prettier body. But by the time Matthew was fully convinced, he would have been more surprised to learn otherwise.

The younger man had even started to relax around Matthew, which was nice. Very nice, actually. In non-scheming, non-acting mode Neal Caffrey was even more irresistible.

His fake smiles could send pulses into overdrive, but his real one's could damn near stop your heart. Somehow, earning them seemed sweeter than any payday: Which was a dangerous notion when you lived on the other side of the law.

It didn't take long for Caffrey to open up about the one who got away; his own heart-stopping smiler. Well, the one who ran away, and was in hiding.

Stupid bitch.

Matthew chose not to freely offer so much about his own history, but he answered any direct questions with unflinching honesty. In some instances, he reflected his bluntness might have scared the other away. But Neal would only avert his eyes in embarrassment for the admitted wrongs, and take another sip of whatever drink he was holding.

Whatever the conclusion their discussions had led to, Neal had apparently come to terms with it. For some unfathomable and ridiculous reason Matthew was relieved that Neal didn't immediately bolt. And that was yet another thing he disliked. By his rules for sanity, survival, and success, Matthew didn't view himself by anybody's opinion, save his own.

-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-

They'd chosen their respective marks less than fifteen hours from their first intended meeting. For Matthew it was an elderly, yet elegant Welsh woman who was just on this side of too smart. But he enjoyed the challenge. Being good at what he did meant he could be honestly intrigued when she spoke, instead of faking interest.

She knew he wasn't truly attracted to her, but she enjoyed the toned-down flirtation, and he appreciated her bawdy wit. He knew how much money she'd brought for the tournament and was confident he could relieve her of part of it. The best part of the job was that she would hand it over, in a separate wager with him.

Neal had selected the Detroit-bred Lawrence Faulkner who, apart from being picky, wasn't old or clever enough to think the beautiful young man's interest in him wasn't sincere. Then again, maybe he thought Neal was after his money, and didn't care.

Apart from their individual cons, they'd decided to work together to win the tournament. They'd argued over who would actually take the win; Neal was far superior with loaded die and sleights of hand, but Matthew was more likely to stay below the radar, and had the potential to win without cheating. Eventually, they settled on a private game to decide.

Sick to death of checkers and dice, the game of choice was chess.

That had started as a very enjoyable evening. They were out of their suits; Matthew in slacks and a polo, and Neal in a loose grey sweater, and tight soft jeans.

They'd sat back and laughed when they caught the other cheating and had to start over. Which was often. (But then chess was substantially more difficult to cheat at, than say poker.)

By the time they'd finished a game (which Matthew won to no apparent hard feelings but for one, fleeting, pout) they were both pleasantly drunk and openly sharing their marks' secrets.

"No!" Neal was red-faced from mirth. Matthew couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this, but Neal's clear, sweet gales kept him going.

"I swear that's what she said. She was sleeping with one of the most powerful men in the world." Matthew sipped his whiskey, watching the chess board, the handsome oak door, the fine (fake) Persian rug. He certainly didn't watch the way Neal's loose hair grazed his handsome face; a cheekbone, an eyebrow… Certainly not.

"And the ugliest." Matthew added as much to distract himself from his staring, as to distract Neal from noticing.

They both tittered like they were fourteen again.

"Well, that's nothing!" Neal said; one-upmanship shining in his expression as he lurched to his feet. Matthew watched the move, paying no particular attention to the way the younger man's hips pushed forward as he balanced himself.

"Lawrence is just-" Neal flailed (literally) for a descriptor. "-bad!"

"You wouldn't believe what he considers flirting! I'm sitting in his room, eying his safe- like almost blatantly staring!-" Matthew tamped down the panic that he'd been made, deciding his cheeks were warm from the liquor and that alone. "-and he wanders up behind me..." Neal drunkenly positioned himself behind Matthew's chair, bracing himself on the armrests, and bringing his face to his companion's ear. He misjudged the distance, and his lips brushed the short, dark hair; glanced off an ear, with a spark of heat.

Suddenly, nothing seemed very funny.

"And he's right by me and he says-" Matthew turned his head and they were nose to nose.

Neal's eyes were bright with fading humor, but soft from drink. His breath caught with an audible hiss. Matthew was already holding his. The younger man's arms were trembling around his own; and they both knew it had little to do with inebriation.

"What'd he say?" Matthew whispered, and Neal's lips parted as his breath ghosted over them.

"He said-" Neal faltered, confused.

The moment, the silence, drew out like a caress. Matthew was painfully turned on, and he knew; saw, felt Neal was experiencing the same.

Time ticked by, and they both moved in the same instant.

Matthew twisted in his chair, reaching...

But Neal had stepped back; away, out of reach.

"I should go." Neal said, looking scared, and apologetic, and lustful all at once.

Matthew stood, and the air was charged with the possibilities, both bad and good, action and inaction.

He 'could' close the distance, and pull Neal into his arms: Take those lips that uttered pretty words and certainly made prettier sounds in passion. And it would be so easy. His body was tensed, ready for the three steps that would bring them together. His fingers itched to push up under that sweater, and confirm that the flesh underneath was even softer; much warmer.

He could take Neal in any way he wanted and Neal would let him... Neal would- But he wasn't Neal, was he?

This insanely beautiful man who was quickly obliterating Matthew's self-control was 'Nelson Carter'. Or was supposed to be. To him.

Matthew had never put a lot of stock in morals, certainly not by conventional standards, but some part of his treacherous conscience said that acting on his impulses right now wouldn't be 'fair'. Not when so many unspecified emotions were factored in.

The thought made him angry. Who the Hell was this punk anyway, that he swept in and fleeced Matthew like any common mark? And apparently without even meaning to.

That wasn't fair either, though. Neal was aroused; those jeans couldn't hide that.

He was angry with himself: For almost breaking his own rules, which clearly said that business and pleasure were always to be kept apart. There was no asterisk nullifying that rule just because you desperately wanted to see Neal Caffrey naked and writhing beneath you.

"You should." he finally agreed, and his tone was colder than he'd intended. He softened it, with a concerted effort, though his voice remained gravelly with unabated lust.

"The tournament's tomorrow night, and we still have work to do." He added, and each second made it easier to resist this 'thing' between them; made his real and acceptable priorities clearer. The job. The job took priority. And business doesn't mix with pleasure.

Words to live by.

Neal gulped, looking indecisive like 'he' might close the distance now. But then he nodded, and slipped past Matthew and out of the room.

The ghost of his scent lingered, heady and forbidden.

With a low groan of self-recrimination and physical 'discomfort', Matthew dropped back to the chair he'd been occupying. He hoped business went quickly and smoothly from here, because pleasure was impatiently waiting its turn.

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TBC

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-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-

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A/N: Now be honest, ya'll… How many of you went 'ARGH!' in frustration that Keller didn't act on his more… primal urges, or that Neal held back? And how many of you were more 'Phew! Thank goodness! Neal can't trust that no-good Keller!' ?

And if you have no opinion on that, comment with something else, because I'd love to hear any questions, comments, accolades, concerns, differing opinions, or constructive criticisms.

If you expect an answer, make sure you're signed in, so I've got a way to respond. ^_~

Oh. And I hope you enjoyed this!

(Tune in for the conclusion.)


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Rules 3/3 (Conclusion and epilogue)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG13 for naughty thoughts, and underhanded scheming.

Summary: Keller meets Neal, who may or may not be an exception to the rules.

Warnings: For this chapter, Keller's a little pervy. And an original character is a little pervy, in retrospect form. I know it adheres to the cliché, but… C'mon. Caffrey's too pretty not to perve over. More on this, after the story.

I reiterate: Slashy themes will be dealt with. If that's not your cup of tea, I totally understand. Well, in a third-party observer kind of way… I can't really empathize, but I think I know where you're coming from.

Notes: I hope this doesn't seem too abrupt. Rest assured, this is precisely what I'd intended from inception to finish. Also, I apologize for how long it took to get this chapter up. Vacations, school, and work had me running ragged for a while. Enjoy!

-o-O-o-O-o-

And so everything worked out.

Matthew found the willpower to push aside his more wanton urges, for the sake of productivity. Neal did the same, a mask of 'nothing happened' attached crookedly, but firmly.

Only, every once in a while, it slipped long enough for Matthew to catch the tail end of a considering glance in his direction.

'Business' did, in fact, go smoothly. Or, rather, as smoothly as their line of business ever went. Matthew's mark, the elderly Welsh woman, paid him the sum of their ten thousand dollar wager with nary a flicker of unease. It might have been that her wealth exceeded concerns for that sort of monetary loss (which he knew was possible)… But the wry grin lurking at the corners of her mouth said that she'd received satisfactory services for the money. As far as 'prostitution' went, he felt he'd got off rather easy. All he'd done was give an old lady a little attention, in the form of a sympathetic ear.

Neal's side deal was the inevitable hiccup from any multi-point scam. Lawrence Faulkner was not a gracious loser, and he'd dragged his heels in paying Neal the sum of their bet. That had less to do with Neal correctly choosing the person who'd won the tournament, and more to do with the stakes of their wager. If Neal's champion won, Lawrence would pay him ten grand, less than a drop in the cup of the man's fortune. Neal had been upfront about his lack of money, but had sealed the deal, and sweetened the pot, in one, by offering one off-the-record, no holds barred… 'boys' night'. And he'd pay up if 'any' person other than the one he was backing should win the tournament.

Needless to say, no one was happier than Neal when Matthew won the fifteen grand prize; out-rolling, checkering, and strategizing the competition. For days, Lawrence had been referring to his expected win as 'A night without safe words', and for years to come, the implications would send shivers up Neal's spine.

The Detroit-bred billionaire had been suspicious, and surly following the competition. And then he'd smiled, and wheedled, offering twice the wager to 'win', anyway. And while twenty thousand dollars was nothing a criminal scoffed at, Neal had seen enough questionable 'toys' in Lawrence's room, that he was willing to lose ten thousand and not risk one night of unspeakable sacrifices.

So he'd continued flirting, always a breath away from saying what the mark wanted to hear. He misled, and feinted until Lawrence reluctantly offered up the initial bet, and then he fled the indulgent city with Matthew; first class.

Altogether, the job had been successful.

The tournament was won, and that purse split between them. Their individual marks had paid up to the private wagers, although in Neal's case, that had likely burned a bridge for future relations with Lawrence Falkner. And then, high on the con and their newfound semi-wealth, they had gone north.

Together.

They found themselves in Paris, sharing espressos on the balcony of Neal's suite which, for an unmentionable price, afforded a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower.

Neal explained how a critic had said the top afforded the best view of Paris, because it was the only place in Paris where you couldn't see the tower.

Matthew nodded, and sipped, remarking that time and history disagreed and that critics were often overly critical.

In short, it was awkward. With the con behind them, it was harder to ignore what had happened that night in Matthew's room.

He was finding that he still wanted what might have been his, and Neal was the human incarnation of indecisiveness.

Matthew thought he might be leaning towards a hesitant 'yes'. And then the only remaining issue would be how fast Matthew could undress the younger man, and whether he should drag him to the bed, or bend him over the balcony railing and let all of the City of Lights see what they didn't have.

He could bide his time, a little longer. He may not have had Neal's instant charm, but he did possess an irresistible persistence.

Like making a diamond. Time and pressure.

Neal would be his jewel, and he no longer cared what the younger man called himself. It was Matthew's name he'd be shouting, after all.

"I'm going back to New York, tomorrow." Neal said into the silence, and Matthew choked on his ridiculously small cup of caffeine.

Shit...

Matthew dredged up a smile, hoping it didn't look as forced as it was.

"And here I thought you 'loved' Paris?" I thought I had time!

"I do, but- only really when living expensively. And every good con knows that no take is inexhaustible. I should be saving some of my winnings. Thinking on how to put back more."

Matthew bit back the instantaneous offer for Neal to stay in his own suite. It was logical, after all, to move on... But he would probably have let all his illicit gains drain away for the ability to stay here with Neal. Just for a while. This was supposed to be another part of the payout: The pleasure that had been put on the backburner.

"There's always the next scheme to plan." Matthew agreed, easily, but his mind was throwing together a scheme for 'now'.

"Right..." Neal said, frowning, trying to decipher Matthew's agenda before it was even finalized.

"But, I might be able to save you the trouble. If the Big Apple could wait, of course?"

Think! Matthew ordered his mind. He could see that the younger man was skeptical, but he wasn't entirely disinterested. He searched back through his memories to every potential take he'd ever passed up. The trouble was he hadn't passed many up, unless the job was too difficult. Or required…

"Ever been to Spain?" Keller threw out. It was a possibility. It hadn't been an option when he worked solo, but then he'd never willingly had an accomplice.

"Once or twice." Neal's eyes went distant, maybe seeing blue waters. Maybe remembering a dark-haired girl who was too stupid to know what she had. Matthew frowned, unseen. "What's in Spain?"

"About fifty thousand." Matthew was upfront. That was the real question, anyway. And it served to bring Neal's thoughts back, firmly, to him.

Matthew set his espresso down, to mask the subtle tremor in his fingers, as Neal considered.

He'll see me, the next time he remembers blue waters, and sunny climes.

"I haven't bought a ticket to New York, yet, or anything..." Neal said, at last. His grin answered Matthew's sudden smile.

Gotcha.

Neal went into a diatribe about his commercial experiences in Madrid or Gibraltar: Where he found the best wine, where to eat, or purchase fake IDs.

Matthew half-listened, adjusting his seduction plans. But soon, images of Neal spread lavishly across his bed, all pale sharp lines, and lidded eyes, gave way to the structural considerations of breaking into a very well-secured Spanish museum. He began considering all angles of the job, and possible methods for success, and came up short just as Neal was remembering to ask what their con was, and how they'd pull it off.

"We're going to need a third man." Matthew admitted when he could think of no alternative.

That would require a bit more planning; particularly in the romantic aspects of his scheming.

Subtly, as he latched onto the idea of fifty thousand dollars, he began pushing his more pleasant thoughts away: Setting them aside, really… For a time when they would be more acceptable.

Pleasure didn't mix with business. Rule number one.

"It's not like this will be my first three man job..." Neal jabbered on, but Matthew wasn't paying attention. Didn't think to smirk for the sake of watching Neal blush.

His mind was back on business.

-o-O-o- END -o-O-o-

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A/N: So, I'll ask again. Who wanted 'business' to take a backseat to 'pleasure' and who was happy that things turned out like they did?

Personally, I think Keller was an idiot… in my story… (Which, ironically enough, was not my intention.)

I think his own set of rules have kept him from enjoying many things, but on the flip side… Neal got caught because of Kate, and Keller managed to stay in the clear for a long while… Actually, Keller was finally caught because of Neal. You may argue that Neal was involved but not the real reason Keller goes to prison… But I'll only stick my fingers in my ear, and hum the soldier's kazoo tune from Robin Hood: Men in Tights, until you stop talking.

Keller's like the school yard bully who never grew out of pulling pigtails. I have to admit, despite all his many transgressions, I'm so stoked that the show keeps bringing him back. There has GOT to be some untold history between him and Neal. And I sincerely doubt it involves the harpy formally known as Kate.

I hope you enjoyed this fic. (And I'd love to know if I achieved the impossible of changing someone's mind about Keller!)

One more thing: I apologize if any 'slash' elements of my story were off-putting to ya'll. I think I keep writing it because (in this instance) the lack of male flirtation on the show is not only a fine example of network television's habits of censorship, prudishness, and ass-hattery, but it's just damned implausible. White Collar takes place in New York-bloody-City! Hell, there're probably a massive number of completely straight men who would be hitting on Neal. So- um… Yeah. Take 'that', mainstream media providers! *cough* I'll shut up now.

Please, please, please comment. It makes me smile. :)


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